The Healer's Oath
by Zoop
Summary: Nymhriel took an oath to heal any in need, not imagining she would be called upon to aid the enemy. Sometimes, though, the enemy isn't who you think it is. Set post-War of the Ring. COMPLETE - and the story continues! See "Oaths" by helenamarkos here on FFN. Cover art by helenamarkos.
1. Anything but Routine

**Anything But Routine**

Nymhriel delicately inserted her needle into the puss-filled bulge on the man's pale back, releasing its contents in a stream she caught with a cloth. He sucked breath through his clenched teeth at the prick, then relaxed. Cleaning up the site of the boil, she applied a healing ointment and a bandage.

"Keep it clean and dry," she ordered as he put his shirt back on. "If it begins to itch or rises again, come see me." Nodding, he pressed a few coins into her palm and left her small cottage.

It had been a busy week, she thought as she scrubbed her hands clean. The boil had been the least of her worries; several men were sporting hideous gashes from a recent dust-up with a troop of orcs still bent on causing mischief so long after the war's end. When the injured began arriving two days ago, she had already delivered two babies in the village and tended three victims of a fever that she was trying to keep from spreading. Routine, really, but all of it at once was trying on her nerves, and devastating to her herbal supplies. In fact, while the sun was still up, she should gather some in preparation for the following day's patients.

Basket on her arm, she walked out of her cottage and froze. Dragging a bloody leg behind him, one arm clutching his gut, an orc crawled awkwardly, painfully toward her. His head hung low; she was fairly certain he didn't even know she stood there. Perhaps he had seen her cottage, thought it empty, and was just looking for some place quiet to die in peace. Her gasp of shock made him stop and haul his head up to look at her.

The expression on his face – resignation – softened and steeled her at the same time. Setting her basket aside, she strode purposefully to him. Taking his arm, she urged him to stand, to lean on her, and allow her to help him the rest of the way. Once inside the cool interior of her cottage, she unceremoniously swept everything off her broad dinner table, heedless of shattering dishes, and stretched him out on its surface. He groaned, the first sound he had made since seeing her.

He fixed his gaze on the ceiling. As if grasping the irony of the situation, a dry, rasping chuckle escaped him, then he winced and grunted.

"Sssshhh," she said in a quiet, soothing voice, then covered his nose and mouth with a cloth. Startled, he drew in an instinctive breath. His eyelids drooped and blinked rapidly. She held the cloth to his face and counted silently to ten as his red eyes darted in panic at the unfamiliar sensations. Then his eyes rolled back and his body went limp.


	2. Reality Check

**Reality Check**

When he woke, the room was dark. Faint, flickering light at one end told him a fire burned low in the hearth. He still lay atop the woman's table, but now his arms were secured underneath, tied one to the other below it. His feet, too, were bound to the table legs. Whoever she was, for whatever reason she knocked him out, she wasn't stupid. He started when he saw her face suddenly looming over his, scrutinizing him carefully. She touched his forehead with a cool palm, holding it there for a few seconds. Then her attention went to his belly wound.

Staring at the timbered ceiling, the orc lay still as the woman loosened the bandage that girded his abdomen and lifted the compress. She probed the stitched area with gentle hands.

"What you do to me?" he rasped weakly. Her head turned slightly in the direction of his voice but didn't look at him directly.

"Sewed you closed," she said simply. "I didn't fancy orc guts on my doorstep."

"Why?" he replied with a grimace. "'S'an honor."

Nymhriel snorted. "Not to me."

A flash of steel caught his eye. There was a long, sharp knife in her hand. "What you doing now?" he whispered.

"You woke too soon," she explained, hooking a blood-encrusted leather strap of his armor with the blade and neatly cutting it. "I've yet to look at your leg. That other wound was more dire." She gestured briefly at his stomach with the point of the knife, then resumed cutting away his leg armor.

Once his thigh was exposed, she brought a lamp closer to see the damage. Sighing, she shook her head and turned toward a basket of things by her feet, fussing with something he couldn't see. He watched her movements, uncomprehending. When she returned to him with the same cloth as before, he began to struggle in a panic.

"Don't be stupid," she said quietly. "It is best. I don't want to listen to your howling." Taking him by the hair in an unexpectedly strong grip, she forced him to stay still enough for her to apply the cloth once more. It was a stronger dose this time, and his descent into oblivion was swift.

The poppy tears dulled pain as well as granting oblivion when applied properly, so when the orc finally drifted back to consciousness, he was relatively comfortable, considering the terrible wounds he had received. It was now full day, and he was surprised to find he was no longer in her kitchen.

He was on a bed. An actual bed, with blankets and sheets, even a pillow beneath his head. He could feel the crisp, clean sheet against his naked skin. Yet he was bound, wrists and ankles tied one to each bedpost. Still cautious, she had ensured he could not turn on her. A nearby window stood open, letting in a fresh autumn breeze. Outside he could hear a horse snuffling the grass, looking for provender. The door was closed, yet he could hear the voices on the other side.

"What I do in my home is my own affair," he heard her say. The tone of her voice was angry; someone had riled her up proper out there.

"You are the only healer for miles around," a man's voice countered, shaking with rage. "What happens to you is of great importance to all of us. You have exposed yourself to danger. That thing in your bed is going to kill you as surely as the winter comes after the fall."

"Perhaps he will," she said coldly. "That is, as I said, my affair. The beast is contained; he cannot harm me."

"Tied down he may be, but how long will you keep him around?"

"Until he is healed."

"Then what? Set him loose? He would only return, probably with his fellows." The man's tone was unmistakably trying to convey without words what the orcs were likely to do with her first.

"Your concerns are noted, Willem, but unnecessary. I have ways of taking care of any...problems that may arise."

"Answer me this, then," the man countered. "What possessed you to heal the beast in the first place?"

There was a very pregnant pause. The orc strained to hear, for it was a question he would ask as well.

"Because I am a healer," she replied with quiet dignity. He could almost hear her head held high as she said it. "I am oath-bound to heal those who suffer. I do not care who, or what, they are."

"If you beheld the Dark Lord himself in a similar state, would you extend your hand to him as well?" the man snapped, unmoved.

"He is different," she said, her voice revealing unexpected malevolence. "I presume you wish to compare the orc to his master. Grotesque as he is, his kind are still living beings. The same cannot easily be said of the Lord of Mordor. Orcs tend to stay in their holes unless prompted out of them by cruel, inhuman creatures like Him. There is capacity within me to feel pity for the slave, but not so much for the master.

"In any case, your point is moot. The Dark Lord is no more."

"I wonder if you think the beast will feel gratitude," the man replied, a hint of mockery in his voice.

"I have no such illusions," she snapped. "If I did, he would not be bound. The war is _over_, Willem, and so is this conversation. I thank you for helping me move him, and perhaps I will consider your...other offer. It would be kind of you to leave now."

No further words were exchanged. The front door opened and closed, the sound of a man mounting a horse and trotting away drifted in. The door of his room opened.

She raised an eyebrow when she looked at him. Without a word, she went to the bed and carefully tested the bonds. Satisfied with their security, she re-examined his wounds, checking again for infection. The soft, gentle touch of her hands stirred his member from its slumber. He felt it stiffening as she heedlessly probed his belly.

Not so heedless as he thought, she grimaced with disgust but otherwise did not deviate from her task. She ignored him pointedly as she replaced the bandage on the injury and turned to his thigh.

A sigh of pleasure escaped him at her touch and he closed his eyes, savoring the contact. Infuriated, she struck him across the face. His eyes snapped open.

"I am a healer," she snarled, piercing eyes fixed on his. "I am also an herbalist of great skill. There are many things I could do to you that are not nearly as benign as dulling pain. You'd best keep silent about your filthy thoughts."

"Can't help it!" he roared, glaring at her and yanking futilely at the ropes. He faltered, looking away. "Not held by _tark _before."

"Get used to it," she snapped, covering his bare leg with the blanket, her examination done. "I am not entirely pleased with how you are healing. I shall have to keep an eye on things." Standing, she looked down at him; he could not mistake the revulsion on her face. "I have treated the women left behind by beasts like you. I have held them in my arms as they wept, sewn them back together, convinced them not to kill themselves for such deeds as... things like you commit. I have disposed of the abominable get that such assaults have conceived. Don't think for one moment that my mercy extends beyond these walls. If my oath had not forced my hand, you would have been killed _without_ mercy, and without thought." Turning on her heel, she left the room and slammed the door.

He found he was shaking, but not from cold.


	3. Vengeance, Thy Name is Woman

**Vengeance, Thy Name is Woman**

It was hours before she returned. Boredom made him sleep on and off during that time; he could see that she had not slept at all. Dimly he recalled voices intruding on his dreams; undoubtedly they were patients come to see her. Eyes hollow and smudged darkly, she looked exhausted. And still the patients came and went, their voices a susurrus of gentle sound on the other side of the closed door.

"My armor?" he asked.

Her expression was weary yet hostile. "It was filthy, as were you. When I washed you, I just left it off."

"You... washed me?" he asked, incredulous.

"Of course," she replied, sitting down on a stool next to the bed and pulling the blanket down in a businesslike fashion to expose his belly for an examination. "I would not put something as disgusting as you in my bed without at least an attempt at disinfection."

"Not disgusting," he mumbled sullenly, glaring at the opposite wall.

"You were _quite_ disgusting," she remarked. Sighing, she stood. "Not good at all." Without another word, she left again. The cool evening air coming in through the window now made him shiver.

A few minutes later she returned with a basket of materials he couldn't identify. "What is not good?" he asked.

"Your belly is too hot," she commented, but didn't elaborate. Again, she produced the cloth.

"No," he whispered, terrified. Glaring at him, she clutched his hair roughly and applied the cloth. The room went black.

This time, he dreamed, but he could never afterwards remember what he saw. He only knew that he woke with cold chills, his body covered with sweat, his heart beating wildly. He made an immediate attempt to free himself, only to gasp with pain. Disoriented, he started roaring for his commander, his fellow orcs, anyone to come and help him. He did not even see the woman approach until she had slapped his face hard, knocking sense back into him.

"Be still!" she hissed, fury in her tired eyes. She looked him over, then glared at him. "You are such an idiot. You've torn open the stitches. I shall have to mend you. _Again_."

"No cloth," he pleaded. He did not know how many days he had been in her care, how much time he had lost to unconsciousness.

"I used too great a dose before," she said. "I will cut it back, but I _must_ put you under. You will not stay still or quiet if I don't."

He shook from head to toe as she came at him once more, cloth at the ready. He resisted as much as he could, but it was in vain. Again, he slipped into oblivion.

* * *

><p>Nymhriel was exhausted. Having grudgingly given up her bed, there was no place for her to get a proper night's rest. The creature needed to be gone from this place as quickly as possible, yet the injuries would take time to heal, at least enough for her to send him on his way. She fretted over his wounds day and night, often slipping him a whiff of the opiate just so he wouldn't wake while she touched them. And him.<p>

Grimly removing the ruined stitches, Nymhriel set about the task of sewing him closed once more. Glancing up, she saw the lines of his face smoothed and peaceful. So different from his waking expression, though he didn't often look angry, near as she could tell. She would have expected fury, given the need to restrain him. Yet he accepted it.

Finishing the re-bandaging, Nymhriel swallowed hard. She watched her hand reach out and lightly rest over the orc's heart, feeling the steady thump against her palm. Her pale skin contrasted so completely with his dusty gray tone. Smooth soft flesh with rough, leathery hide. Drawing in a shaky breath, she eased the blanket down, exposing him.

He was made so like a man, yet he was not. How long had it been since the war that took so many young men had ended? Four years? Five now? So many men lost to creatures like this one. She pulled the blanket completely off his body. His bandy-legged form appeared suited to crouching hunched over like a beast. His hands and feet ended in talon-like claws.

Succumbing to what she preferred to think of as morbid fascination that had apparently not been satisfied when she washed his body before, Nymhriel lightly touched his uninjured thigh with her fingertips. Slowly drew her fingers down to his knee. Then up the outside to his lean hip. Over the jutting hip bone.

She hesitated, her face hot with shame. Biting her lower lip, she felt like the helpless observer of an indecent act as her hand completed its journey to end cupped over his flaccid member. For an all too brief moment, she noted the difference in the flesh of his body with that of his penis. It was so soft and smooth. So like a man's...

Infuriated with herself, Nymhriel hastily pulled the blanket over him. Each time she gave in to the temptation of unhindered exploration, she hated herself more, and resented him.

* * *

><p>The orc drifted to wakefulness in the late afternoon to the sound of weeping. Blinking against the sunlight, he listened hard; the voices were often too soft to hear, but they were both female. The healer and a patient.<p>

"I understand why you feel this way," the healer said gently. "But you have children, a husband..."

"He will not look at me," another voice quavered, hitching over sobs. "He will not _touch_ me."

"I spoke with him. He is confused. He does not want to frighten you. It is not..."

"He _saw_ the thing... do it," the other voice wailed. More weeping followed. "I am... _soiled_..."

"No, no, you are not," the healer's voice said sternly. "You are blameless in this. He knows that."

Their voices quieted again, too low for him to make out the words for several minutes. Then...

"You... have one here, do you not?" It was the weeping woman's voice, slightly stronger, and just outside the door.

"Yes," the healer replied cautiously.

"I wish to see it."

"That is not wise," she said. "You have suffered; you do not think clearly..."

"Show it to me," the weeping woman demanded, no longer weeping. Her voice was cold and angry.

"As you wish." The door opened.

In the doorway stood a woman, trembling with the effort to look at him without showing weakness. Pure hatred contorted her features and clenched her fists. Her eyes were red-rimmed from tears. Her lips curled. Behind her, the healer stood watching, arms folded over her breasts.

The weeping woman's malice billowed into the room like a heat wave. The orc's eyes widened in fear; he was utterly helpless before one whose rage required blood to quench it.

"It cannot escape?" the weeping woman said. The healer nodded.

Like a wildcat striking, the weeping woman buried both fists into his groin at once. Stars burst before his eyes as a bellow of enraged pain erupted from him. But she didn't stop; she kept pounding on his most vulnerable area until the healer dragged her from the room. He didn't need the poppy tears to slip away after that.


	4. Delirium

**Delirium**

It was deep night when he awoke. His privates ached, and he longed to check them, make sure all were still intact. It was quite possibly the worst thing that had happened to him so far. He could see in the dark, even without moonlight streaming through the window, but his injured privates were hidden by the sheet covering his body. Frustrated, he pulled on the ropes ineffectually.

The longer he lay there, the worse he seemed to hurt. He yanked even harder, rattling the bedframe. The door opened, and the healer stood in the doorway holding a candle.

"What is it?" she snapped.

Swallowing hard, he cringed and began to tremble. His breathing sped up as fear mounted and panic set in.

"No more, please," he begged.

She frowned. "No more what?" She entered the room and set the candle on the table next to the bed. Mechanically, she examined his healing wounds.

"Cloth," he whispered.

Rolling her eyes, she said impatiently, "It is not needed unless I have to cut into your flesh or sew it back together."

"Why give at night?" he asked.

Nymhriel froze for a moment, then resumed. "That is my business."

He watched her change the dressings, and slowly calmed down. "Look, please...," he began, but faltered. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes. She was looking at him now, and he felt stupid.

"What?" she said. Her voice did not convey any sympathy at all, and was not encouraging.

"Look... see if...," he said awkwardly.

"Look at _what_?" she pressed. He could swear she was enjoying his discomfort.

Staring at the ceiling, he said through clenched teeth, "Look at cock and see if still works."

She chuckled softly in response, but pulled the blanket down anyway. He raised his head to look, and watched her gently touch him with soft hands. To his alarm, fear of further reprisals wasn't enough to keep him flaccid.

"It would appear to still function properly," she said with amusement, covering him once more with the sheet. Meeting his eyes, she asked, "Do you know why she attacked you?"

"Because... she was...," he said hesitantly.

"She was raped by one of your kind," the healer supplied. "Her husband interrupted or she would likely have been murdered when the beast was finished with her. She came here asking for something to end her suffering."

"Wasn't me," he said defensively.

"Do you think that matters?" Leaning forward, she continued, "It doesn't. But I think you helped her. She felt stronger when she left. A little bit of justice goes a long way."

Rising, she turned to leave.

"What name?" he asked suddenly. She halted at the door.

"Why do you ask?"

"Wanna know," he said uncertainly. "No name, _tark_ seem..." Unsure what to say, he just shrugged.

"Cold?" she asked, facing him. "Cruel? Heartless? Indifferent?" She leaned against the frame and folded her arms over her breasts, regarding him with mild interest.

"Fear you," he growled weakly. Her eyebrows rose.

"How ironic," she said softly. "You are more afraid of me than I am of you."

"Thought...," he said hesitantly, sheepishly, "you might eat me."

She stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"For a moment," he continued, daring to smile. He hadn't heard her laugh even once since he arrived; she always seemed so serious. It was nice to hear.

"Eat you?" she finally said with difficulty, so overcome with mirth was she. "Whatever possessed you to think that?"

"Brought me to kitchen, put me on table," he explained, only to prompt a fresh burst of laughter from her. He found he was enjoying this.

"Stop it," she choked, wiping tears from her eyes. "Nymhriel. My name is Nymhriel."

"Nymhriel," he repeated slowly. "Beautiful name."

"Thank you," she replied. "I suppose it would be bad manners not to ask yours."

"Gundshau," he said. She nodded.

"I assume your injuries came from a confrontation with the villagers."

He shook his head. "Trolls." Again, her eyebrows rose with surprise. "Hid in cave; storm outside. Trolls in cave. Killed other orcs."

"Why did you come here?"

"Saw smoke; thought it was camp." Shrugging he said, "Not worse than where I was."

"It might have been, if you'd found someone other than me," she said wearily. "The villagers saw to a group of orcs not many days past. They might consider you to be one they missed if they saw you." She shook her head; perhaps the King's edict was unpopular, and oft ignored, but it was still the law. An orc not causing trouble was to be left alone.

Sighing, she blinked her eyes rapidly. Her eyelids were drooping, her head nodding. The battle she had fought for so many days was reaching a turning point; it was not likely she'd prevail much longer.

"You need sleep," the orc observed.

She shook her head to clear it. "I get what rest I need."

"Where?"

"There is a wooden chair in the kitchen. I rest there."

"Lie down," he urged. "There is room here; can do nothing."

Her brow furrowed as she stared at him. "Lie down... next to you. Is that what you're saying?"

"Tied up," he shrugged. "Can't touch you."

Nymhriel continued to stare, to weigh her options. The orc was indeed helpless still. The nights _were_ getting colder. And she was so very tired...

Closing her eyes, she came to a decision. One of the few blankets in the house was draped over Gundshau; she approached warily, lifted the blanket and slowly, hesitantly, slid into the bed beside him. Because his limbs were stretched from corner to corner, she was obliged to cleave to his side with her back against him, pressing into the curve of his body. Trembling, she tucked herself securely in the blanket, her head pillowed on his hard bicep.

She could feel his body quivering slightly as well, could feel the heat he generated. It was comforting. Only a few minutes passed, and she was sound asleep.

Gundshau stared at the ceiling, listening to her breathing. He was a bit surprised at how readily she agreed to lie next to him, but supposed that fatigue was making her a bit out of sorts. He would have been less surprised if she'd stormed out of the room in high dudgeon, cursing him and his foul suggestions. Turning his head, he sucked in a long whiff of her hair, memorizing her scent. Beautiful name, beautiful woman, beautiful scent. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her hair. Under the blanket, he felt his still-aching member stiffening yet again, and wished he could turn enough to rub against her. Sighing with disappointment, he settled himself and allowed sleep to take him.


	5. Midnight Miracle

**Midnight Miracle**

Gundshau jerked out of sleep to the sounds of a horse and cart wheels on the hard-packed ground outside.

"Nymhriel!" a man's voice shouted, high-pitched from panic. "Nymhriel!" There was a thundering pounding on the door of the cottage.

The healer bolted from the bed, nearly dragging the blanket off the orc in her haste, and ran out the door to let the late night visitor in. Gundshau listened intently to the voices out the window.

"Is it time?" the healer asked.

"I think so," the man replied, his voice shaking. "The waters loosed as you said they would, but she is in great pain."

"Goodness, Berenold, were you not there for her first?"

"Nay," he replied. "Eleanor came when I was at Pellenor Fields."

"Brace yourself, then," Nymhriel said. "Help me bring her in."

The orc was utterly baffled. None of the _tark's_ words made any sense to him, other than the mention of Pellenor. He'd learned later that was the name of the field before Minas Tirith, where the great army was routed some years ago. Followed mere days later by the complete disordering of his world... All of a sudden, the keening wail of a female in terrible pain sounded through the window. Gundshau froze, eyes widening with alarm. Whatever was happening, he had not heard such a cry in his life.

The door to the bedroom banged open and Nymhriel hustled inside. Going to the wardrobe opposite the bed, the healer pulled out linens and pillows, then dashed back into the kitchen, where the orc could see the man carrying in the groaning form of a woman. As heedless as when she prepared the table for him, dishes crashed to the floor. He could see one end of the table; Nymhriel hastily prepared a bed for the woman. Berenold lay her gently down.

As Gundshau watched the scene in the kitchen, he realized Nymhriel hadn't closed the bedroom door.

The woman's face suddenly contorted from some great strain and she wailed again. The doorframe hid the woman from her grotesquely distended midsection down, so he wasn't able to see what the healer was doing.

"Berenold, hold her shoulders up," Nymhriel instructed calmly. The man did as he was told, cradling the woman in his arms. "Sweet Valar, it's breeched. Hannah, darling, I will need to turn it. This will hurt. Please forgive me. Berenold, hold her still as best you can."

Whatever Nymhriel did to the woman, it must have been horrifically painful, for Hannah threw her head back and bellowed so loudly the rafters shook. It was the kind of sound that caused Gundshau's instinctive need to run for cover to kick in. Even his shieldbrother's roar of pain while being ripped in twain by a troll hadn't been that tortured. Berenold's face paled, but he firmed his mouth and held his ground.

"All right, that's got it," Nymhriel said after a few moments. "Your little one is anxious to come out. I see the head. You should feel the need to push any moment now. Hannah, dear, slow your breathing. You will make yourself faint. Berenold, brace yourself, she will use you for leverage."

It did not take long for Hannah to fold forward and contort her face with a strain Gundshau couldn't understand. All he could see were Hannah's sweat-covered face, heaving chest, and clenched arms, and Berenold's gradually increasing expression of horror. It was enough to send the ignorant orc into paroxysms of terror as well.

"There, there, almost there," the healer crooned. "You are doing well, all is well. One more push..."

Berenold arched forward to see what was happening at the other end of the table. To the orc's surprise, the man's face suddenly went slack, and he slithered to the floor.

"Ignore him," Nymhriel said with a hint of amusement. "He can face the abominations of Mordor, but pales before the most natural thing in the world." The orc felt a twinge of anger at her reference to his kind, but quickly suppressed it.

Hannah bent forward once more, straining hard, then suddenly fell backwards, her head hanging off the end of the table, her breath coming in gasps. Nymhriel cried out in delight. "Oh, Hannah! You have given Berenold a son!" To emphasize her shocking announcement, the relative quiet of the cottage was sundered by the angry wail of an infant.

Gundshau's mouth fell open. He was further astounded by the woman's apparently swift recovery. Moments before, she had appeared to be in the worst pain imaginable, but once the swaddled form of her child was in her arms, she was cooing and smiling down at the tiny face, caressing the balled up fists waving furiously in the air. Memory stirred in the orc, and he found himself beginning to smile a little.

"He is beautiful, is he not?" Hannah said, speaking her first words since arriving. Nymhriel returned to her side, wiping blood and fluids from her arms with a towel.

"All babes are beautiful," she said, "but he is exceptional." The women beamed at one another. Suddenly, Nymhriel glanced up and met Gundshau's eyes. Frowning, she strode purposely around the table and slammed the door on the bedroom.

The orc's mind reeled. An infinite number of questions came to him. Fretting impatiently, he waited for hours until well after sunrise when Berenold and Hannah left with their new child. Eventually, a thoroughly exhausted Nymhriel quietly opened the bedroom door and entered with a bowl of oatmeal. His breakfast.

Seating herself on the edge of the bed rather than the stool she usually sat on, the healer began spooning the thick substance into the orc's mouth.

Questions could wait. He learned quickly that this woman was just as skilled in the kitchen as she was in the healing arts. Every mouthful was a gift, and he was not one to squander such things. He almost hoped she'd never release him, if she would only continue to cook such delicious food. The thought surprised him, since he'd always eaten his meat raw and never deigned to allow a vegetable to pass his lips before now. He was less surprised by the desire to remain imprisoned; the alternative was returning to the band of orcs he traveled with. There was no longer an organized army, but the group was led by a former lieutenant of Sauron's, and he ran their lives as if they were on campaign. It was nigh unbearable at times. As for being bound... and not tortured... such a unique combination. It bore thinking about.

Even so simple a dish as oatmeal could reduce the orc to languid stillness, a grin on his face. Belly full, he finally opened his eyes to look at her.

"Tell me," he said quietly.

She was so tired she seemed unable to keep her eyes open. "Tell you what?"

"Pain. It is normal?"

She nodded wordlessly, but didn't seem inclined to elaborate.

"Woman endure pain for child?"

She nodded in silence again. Her eyes were drooping shut.

"Why?"

"New life is a precious gift," she said wearily. "It is worth the suffering. I have been midwife to women whose suffering lasted for many hours. Hannah was lucky; she has borne a child before, and the boy came quickly, though backwards."

"Backwards?"

Sighing, she said, "Babies are meant to come out head first. He did not, so I had to turn him. It is not pleasant, but thankfully not common either."

Biting his lip, he whispered, "Come out where?"

Frowning, she tilted her head and regarded him carefully, as if unsure he was sincere. "You truly do not know?" He shook his head. "You know how babies are made, do you not?" He shrugged and nodded. He wasn't _that_ stupid. "Well, the... passage is an entrance as well as an exit."

His eyes flared open in shock. He hadn't been inside too many females, but he _knew_ it wasn't big enough for the size of baby he saw passed to the mother! Then he thought back to his little sister, tiny to his eyes when first presented to the family, but at least as big as the Woman's child. His brow furrowed deeply, trying to recall if he'd seen or heard any sounds like the Woman made when his ma bore any of his younger sisters. He couldn't; it had been too long ago, and he was too young then.

Nymhriel laughed lightly at his expression. "Yes, it can be a shock to men. Berenold was unprepared."

"You ever bear child?"

She seemed taken aback by his question. "Well, no, I have not."

"Want child?"

"I do not think that is any of your business," she said stiffly.

"Not seem fair," Gundshau mused, oblivious to her sudden discomfort. "Woman endure great pain for child. Woman endure pain to _make_ child."

Again, Nymhriel was startled. "What... what makes you think it hurts to make a child?"

The orc gave her a withering look. "Why woman scream and weep when taken? See it sometimes. Orcess don't scream, don't weep."

The healer's mouth fell open in shock that was quickly replaced with fury. "You are an imbecile," she hissed. Lurching to her feet, she glared down at the orc. "A filthy beast. How you can equate _rape_ with..." Too angry to say anything further, Nymhriel whirled and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Gundshau sank back on the pillow and stared out the window thoughtfully, considering her words and reaction to his. As he did so, he absently scraped the rope at his right wrist. His thoughts were too far away to notice the fraying and snapping of the strands.


	6. Pain Knows No Boundaries

**Pain Knows No Boundaries**

Nymhriel leaned against the bedroom door, clutching her heart. She raised a shaking hand to rub her eyes with the heel of her palm. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. In the quiet of the cottage's main room, she could almost hear the beating of her heart.

The sound of a horse's hooves outside signaled the arrival of another patient, coming from who knows where, wanting her help with who knows what. The healer stood and smoothed the front of her dress. Her hands trembled, so she clenched her fists to steady them.

The morning passed in a fog. More than once, a patient asked if she was all right. Offered assistance. Steadied her when she faltered.

She could not bring herself to enter the bedroom to feed the orc at noontime. His ignorant words, his ridiculous assumptions... Just thinking about it made her blood boil. Reducing the tender intimacies of husband and wife to such base and vile description! And the audacity of asking if she wanted a child! When she would have done anything, _anything_ to fulfill her duty as a wife...

The filthy thing was in her bed. The bed she might still be sharing with her husband, had he not marched to war and never returned. Dead by the hand of a beast like Gundshau.

Nymhriel took a moment to steady herself, sinking into a chair at her table. Angwedhon's absence seemed to fill the room like a presence. She could almost smell him.

She didn't even realize she was weeping.

Patients came and went, and by evening, Nymhriel was unable to cross the room without stumbling. Her hands could barely hold the knife as she prepared a simple meal for herself and the... _him_. _It_. That _thing_. With his deformed body. Ugly face. A mockery of a man's form.

With a start, she held up her hand where the knife had cut through the web of skin between thumb and forefinger. The crimson liquid welling from the wound transfixed her. It ran down her palm. A trickle slid over her wrist. She could almost see the pulsing below the skin. Closing her fist, she watched as the blood pooled in the curl of her finger and thumb, fascinated. Opening her hand again, the accumulated fluid poured like a waterfall onto the floor.

Followed swiftly by Nymhriel herself.

* * *

><p>A dull thud from beyond the door startled Gundshau from his slumber. He was hungry and thirsty, and hadn't seen his captor for hours. A glance out the window told him the sun was beginning its descent.<p>

He debated calling for her. She didn't come to feed him at noon, either. It was worrisome. He supposed, perhaps, he had said something wrong. Sighing, he settled himself in to wait, letting his mind wander.

It was actually nice being clean, he mused. He hadn't cared much about it after he joined the Dark Lord's army. Once he'd crawled through every stinking swamp and mud pit outside of Mordor with no hope of bathing for weeks, filth became a tolerable second skin. He even stopped wrinkling his nose at other orcs' smells. It had been years since he smelled anything pleasant.

Nymhriel's hair smelled good. He smiled at the memory of pressing his face into the long tresses, breathing in the scent of flowers. It reminded him of home, a pasture of alfalfa swaying in the wind like tumbling waves. His da teaching him and his brothers how to stalk their prey through the grasses, how to shoot straight, how to skin and cure the hide. He taught them to fletch their own arrows, and to waste nothing of the kill. Gundshau had been looking forward to his coming of age, when his da would take him aside and lift the veil from the mysteries of life, including those which Nymhriel evidently felt he should have already known about.

There was much he no longer remembered of the home he'd once known. A great deal he chose _not_ to remember, yet came to him now in spite of his wishes.

A shadow passed over his face as memories of his da inevitably led to the orc's death, Gundshau forced to run ahead of the _tarks _riding through the settlement on their tall horses, the sun glinting off silver mail and steel swords. His ma roaring a challenge, clutching his newest sibling to her breast as the axe descended, silencing her. The Men purposefully riding back and forth, back and forth, trampling his baby sister into an unrecognizable mass of flesh and bones. His da rallying a force of archers, only to be ridden down and put to the sword himself. Gundshau running, running, nearly blinded by panic and fear, stumbling over bodies, some of them family, staring wide-eyed at the cloudless sky, shock and pain on their faces.

A sob tore from his throat, and tears fell down his face to wet the crisp, white pillow beneath his head.


	7. Freedom

**Freedom**

Recovering himself, Gundshau fretted once again. His stomach was growling. While it was true he'd gone far longer on short to no rations while marching under the banner of the Red Eye, he'd gotten used to regular meals with the band of orcs he traveled with, and particularly good ones here in the healer's cottage.

She left angry. Furious, even. Maybe that thump was the door closing. Maybe she had decided to just leave him to starve. Once more, he absently scraped at the ropes holding his right wrist as he often did without even thinking about it. How long would it take to starve, he wondered. He'd once gone a week, right after the Dark Lord was defeated. Everything was thrown into chaos; getting as far away from the upheaval in Mordor as possible, and the invigorated soldiers of Gondor and Rohan, had been his primary concern. But he'd had water then, once he got past the Dead Marshes.

He didn't like to remember that battle. So much of it was a blur now. What he couldn't get rid of was the memory of the Dark Lord's demise. It felt like Grond itself had pounded straight through his gut, punching his heart out through his back along with most of his other vital organs. He sometimes wondered what orcs as far away as the Misty Mountains had felt, if it was the same all over Middle Earth or diminished with distance.

Then there had been... quiet. Oh, he hadn't noticed it for hours because he was at a dead run, nearly pissing himself with panic and fear as he sought some refuge that didn't have a sword aimed at him. But when he stopped to catch his breath, when he was certain he was not followed, that the _tarks _were too busy with the Easterlings still putting up a resistance in the shadow of the ruined Gates, he felt it.

Peace.

How could he have lived sixteen years and not known there was a voice in his head, a blackness in his heart, a sickness in his gut?

Even now, the revelation calmed him. He spent days in that hollow, not going out to hunt, just attending to his thirst in a nearby stream. So much became clear to him. Gundshau eventually concluded that _tarks _hated his kind because of what the Dark Lord made of them, how he used them. With him gone, they were free to be something else.

Unfortunately, he recalled with a bitter grimace, this opinion was not universally held. After attempting to get on with his life, putting the war behind him, traveling in the open like any other person in the world, he quickly learned that the memories of _tarks _were long. After being chased down by angry farmers and beaten nearly to death, he slunk off, licked his wounds, and resolved to remain in hiding.

He had been angry as well. The attack was unprovoked. He hadn't even threatened their livestock, much less their persons. The only thing that saved him from death was the absence of blades. For some reason, the five men had only been armed with cudgels and clubs. Perhaps Gundshau should have thanked the Powers for that blessing, but at the time all he could think about was the unfairness of it. He was still seething over it when he ran across the band of orcs he joined.

And he seethed now, even in the comfortably warm cottage with its welcoming smells, delicious food, and beautiful woman. He didn't truly mind being tied down so much; he understood why. He didn't like it, the fear she felt, but he accepted it. He would give anything to show her he meant her no harm. He knew exactly who had wronged him and his people in the years following the war, and she had proven that she wasn't among them.

Frustrated, he jerked on the ropes. To his shock, his right hand broke free. Holding it up, he stared at his hand for several moments, his mind blank. His wrist was marred by so many days rubbed raw by the bindings, but otherwise functional. He flexed his fingers experimentally. Yes, all was well. He felt needles drive through his shoulder as he slowly lowered his arm to his side, but they faded after a few minutes. He shook life back into his limb.

Then he reached up to claw at the rope holding his left wrist.

* * *

><p>She was floating on a cloud, slowly descending to earth. It was a pleasant dream, for the most part, though there was, perhaps, a bit more red in it than was entirely comfortable. But Nymhriel had slept, finally slept deeply and truly after so many days. She wasn't about to quibble over the quality of her dreams.<p>

A cool breeze wafted across her face, bringing the scent of earth and fallen leaves. She snuggled warmly into the blanket, adjusted her head on the pillow...

Her eyes shot open. She sat up with alarm.

Nymhriel was in her bed. The frayed remains of the orc's fetters still clung to the bedposts, but he was nowhere to be seen. She clutched her heart, and was gratified to find she still wore the same dress. At least he hadn't... Shuddering, she climbed out of the bed and straightened her skirts. It was then she noticed that her wounded hand had been crudely bandaged.

She listened hard. There was no sound in the cottage. She hoped he had taken his leave. Why he would repay her harsh treatment with such courtesies as putting her to bed and binding her injury was beyond her reckoning. Cautiously, she cracked open the bedroom door and peeked into the main room.

Empty. Breathing a swift prayer of thanks, she went into the kitchen. There was evidence that Gundshau had foraged a bit in her vegetable bin, but had not otherwise disturbed anything. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Nymhriel considered herself lucky to have survived the orc's escape.

A thud jarred her, and she whirled around. The orc was standing in the doorway. Nymhriel backed into the cabinets, clutching her heart. Gundshau's sudden appearance was made all the more terrifying by the fact that he wore breeches and a tunic that had belonged to her dead husband. She almost missed the carcass of a wild boar he held by the tusks in one hand.

The awkward silence stretched for several moments as the woman and the orc stared at one another across the room. Finally, Gundshau made the first move. With a grunt, he heaved the boar onto the table, then he took out a long knife.

"Please," Nymhriel squeaked, and he hesitated, looking at her. She cleared her throat. "Please take it outside. Pig guts are little better than orc guts on my floor."

An uncertain smile struggled across his face for a moment, but he sheathed the knife and carried the boar out into the yard.

She was shaking all over. Every woman she had healed after an orc finished with her flashed through her mind in a whirlwind. Cautiously, Nymhriel crossed the room to the front door, and looked out.

It was clear the orc was very experienced at dressing game. Though his work left him covered in blood, he already had the skin off and was piling slabs of meat on it.

How long would this apparent truce last? Her thoughts were broken by the sound of a horse approaching.

Gundshau's head shot up, then he looked back at her. There was fear in his eyes. Uncertainty.

"Don't just sit there," she hissed. "Hide yourself!"

He did not need to be told twice. Leaping to his feet, he took off around the back of the cottage where there were trees and bushes, the edges of a forest.

Nymhriel struggled for several seconds to calm herself before the rider appeared. She wilted when she saw that it was Willem. Of all people to show up now...

"Hello, Nymhriel!" he called, dismounting in the yard. His gaze fell on the bloody mess of flesh and bones on the ground. Nymhriel started; how was she to explain _that_?

"I see you've been doing a bit of...butchering?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes," she said as casually as she could. "A...patient offered the boar in payment, and I accepted it."

"He did not dress it first?" Obviously, Willem found this omission highly inconsiderate.

"He was in a hurry."

"You don't look like you've been dressing a boar...," he said suspiciously, noting her clean clothing.

"Well, I changed my clothes and washed," she said hastily. "It was quite a messy business."

He seemed unconvinced. "The job isn't finished. There is still quite good meat there."

Fretting nervously for a moment, she caught a flash of inspiration. "I...I cut myself. I needed to bind it, and as long as I was cleaning my hand...," she faltered, trailing off.

"Where is he, Nymhriel?" Willem asked quietly. There was a threatening note underlying his seemingly calm voice.

The bottom fell out of her stomach. "I don't know what you mean..."

"I thought I made my desires clear on this matter," he said, taking a few steps closer. "Surely you could not have been mistaken. You would not invite another man into your bed, would you?"

The relief she felt in realizing he wasn't talking about the orc was quickly replaced with fear of what he _was_ referring to. Squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine with as much dignity as she could muster, Nymhriel said, "What I do in my own home..."

"That argument is stale, Nymhriel," he snapped. Now he was mere feet away. His face was contorted with fury. "I came here to present my offer once more, thinking you had enough time to think on it. Now I find that you have spread your legs for another in my absence. That is not acceptable."

"Willem, I did no such...," she began, but he cut her off with a stinging slap across the face.

"I have been patient," he snarled, grabbing her arms and shaking her. "I have been quite the gentleman, I'm sure you would agree. That time has passed."

Shock paralyzed her. She had expected an attack, but not from one of her own kind, not with the orc free to do as he pleased. She barely got a scream out before his mouth was brutally crushing hers. Then he was dragging her down to the ground. She felt his weight on her, his fumbling hands pulling her skirts up, and she began to kick, to fight. She tore her mouth free for a moment and screamed again, only to be silenced by a fist. The blow jarred her, made her go limp.

Out of nowhere came an enraged roar. Perhaps Willem cried out in alarm. Nymhriel was too stunned to tell. All she knew was the relief of his removal. She curled up on her side in a ball and wept.

When her panic began to subside, she opened her eyes to see Gundshau straightening, turning toward her. For a wild moment, she feared the orc would continue what Willem started. But he only gathered her in his arms and lifted her, carrying her into the cottage and putting her to bed.

But she caught a glimpse of Willem over the orc's shoulder, lying spread eagle on the ground, eyes staring lifelessly at the sky. Face frozen in shock. Throat shredded by sharp teeth. Belly ripped open. Intestines stretched out several feet across the ground. Blood...so much blood...

Even for a healer accustomed to the gore of surgery, the sight was too much for Nymhriel on top of the other shocks she'd sustained this day, and she swooned.


	8. Cover Up

**Cover-Up**

"Nymhriel!"

The healer was woken with a start by a rough hand shaking her. Her instincts screamed, urging her to flee, hide, protect herself. She cried out in alarm before she even saw who stood over her.

"Thank goodness," the man said, breathing a sigh of relief. "I've been trying to wake you for some time now. Are you well?"

She was in her bed, where Gundshau must have put her after... Terror filled her, and she shrunk away from the man. She barely recalled who he was. It had been months since he last came by.

"Forgive me, miss," he said, noting her manner and taking a step back to a more respectful distance. "I've only come for more of the tea you gave me for my wife's headaches. She's...," he said, pausing with embarrassment. "It's her moon time."

"I... I see," Nymhriel stammered, slowly rising from the bed and smoothing her skirts. "Of course you may have more. Just a moment." Feeling a little dizzy, she went into the main room of the cottage.

The front door stood open, giving the healer a brief glimpse of the front yard as she went to her herbal stores. The boar was gone; Willem, also gone. Even the blood was nowhere to be seen. Fighting to hide her astonishment, Nymhriel clumsily scooped a generous amount of leaves onto a parchment. Perhaps it had been a dream, or a delirious hallucination caused by exhaustion.

"If you don't mind my asking, miss," the man said behind her, and she jumped slightly, nearly spilling the dried herbs on the floor. "What's become of that orc? There's talk in the village that you were just going to let him go."

Composing herself the best she was able, Nymhriel held her voice steady as she answered. "That is what I have done, yes. He healed sufficiently, so I... I let him go free. He was grateful for my aid, and went on his way."

"I suppose stranger things have happened," the man mused. "Though I think many hearts would be eased if you moved to the village. Not for always, mind you," he assured her, noting the rigid set to her shoulders. "Just until... well, until you can be sure the orc ain't coming back, you know?"

"He will go back to his own kind, and good riddance to him," she snapped a little more harshly than she intended. Handing the man his packet, she held her head up stiffly. "I will be fine here, as I have always been."

"You know best, I'm sure," he conceded, turning to leave. Then he turned around, as if remembering something. "Oh, I meant to ask. Is Willem here? Only I saw his horse outside, and..." He stopped when he saw the look on her face. "Miss?"

"I... I didn't know," she stuttered, swallowing hard. "I haven't seen him in days. Why on earth would his horse be here?"

"You don't suppose," the man said hesitantly, "that orc is still around, do you?"

"No, of course not!" she cried a little too quickly.

"Well, he did say something about coming over here and putting it out of its misery for you." He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, then winked and smiled. "He always was sweet on you, Miss Nymhriel."

It was a struggle not to vomit at those words, or to point out once more the King's law. She just wanted the man to _leave_. "I'm sure if he... if he has resolved himself to track down the orc and... and provoke him, that's not my concern. When he is quite finished, he will... seek me out."

"You ought to see to his horse, then. Poor thing looks a bit parched." Stepping out the door, he waved the packet and grinned. "Thank you for this."

Nymhriel didn't start breathing again until the man had ridden off. As if in a trance, she went out to the yard and took the horse around the back of the cottage. It gratefully drank from the rain barrel. Her fingers shook as she loosened and removed the saddle.

Suddenly, the horse reared its head up and snorted, taking a few steps back. Its eyes rolled in panic. Whirling, Nymhriel came face-to-face with the orc. She backed into the horse's flank.

"Still here," he growled.

She could only nod wordlessly.

His brow furrowed, and he took a step forward. She recoiled, reaching up to clutch the neck of her dress. Bowing his head slightly, he nodded to himself and took two steps back. "I hid man. Finished boar. Meat is in smokehouse."

"Why... why did you kill him?" she choked.

He looked taken aback by the question, then looked away. "Remember some things. Orcs taking _tark _females." He shook his head firmly, brow furrowed. "Hurt them bad. Da didn't teach me _that_." Then his lip curled in a snarl. "Filthy _tark _hurt you. Won't hurt you anymore." He thumped his chest with a fist. "Protect you."

"Protect...," she whispered. Taking a deep breath, she said more forcefully. "You have put me in a very dangerous position."

"What you mean?" he said, bewildered. "I hide man. I hide blood." Gesturing toward the horse, he added, "Get rid of horse. Nobody know."

"They will _look_ for him," she snapped. "They will scour the hills trying to find him. And they will start _here_." Rubbing her forehead, she paced nervously away from the orc.

"Then... I make sure they find him, yes?" he offered.

Nymhriel halted. She couldn't believe she was actually conspiring with an orc to cover up... Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she turned and faced him. "Take him... far from here. The horse as well. Leave him where... where you think best, where he will be found." Glancing at the horse, she winced. "Strike the horse. Wound it, but not fatally! Just enough to send it off." She began to calm down as the plan formed in her mind. "It should return to the village. They will, no doubt, come here first, since he was last known to be here. I will tell them... I will say he came back for his horse and left, and I don't know where he went."

Gundshau gave a brief nod of agreement. Nymhriel hastily saddled the horse and handed the reins to the orc. As he turned away, she steeled herself and laid a hand on his arm. She felt his muscles tense as he looked at her questioningly.

"Try to make it look like... wolves did it."

He stared at her for several awkward seconds as her statement sunk in. Blinking uncertainly, he nodded, then led the horse to where he'd stashed the body.

The orc didn't have to go far. The man's remains were tucked into a corner of the woman's smokehouse. When he heard the patient's approach, he'd hidden inside and spent the entire visit carving choice pieces off the corpse while he chewed on a strip of skin. No sense letting such a rare treat go to waste. Unfortunately, now he had to discard the best parts in order to protect his female.

Grinning, he tested that thought as if savoring a tasty morsel. _His female_. If he'd had any doubts before, they were removed when she asked him to mask his own part in the killing. As though she protected him in return. Yes, that is what mates did. They looked after each other. He'd seen his own parents, so many times, guarding each other's backs. It was what you did, the way of things.

It felt good to remember them as mates, not as corpses.

What with his attack and subsequent dressing, Willem was a difficult burden to bear. Sighing with resignation, Gundshau wrapped the man in a blanket to keep all the pieces more or less together, then slung him over the horse's back. The horse was not particularly keen on the orc, and the stench of death did not improve matters. Sighing, the orc guided the beast off into the forest, enduring the frequent attempts to get away and the occasional bite, encouraged by the thought that once he dumped the body, he'd get to take a swipe at the animal as recompense.

Night was falling when he finally located a place that was far enough from the cottage to divert suspicion, yet near enough to a well-worn path to guarantee the man would be found. Grinning with delight, he turned to the wild-eyed horse that had plagued him the entire trip and raked his claws down its neck. The horse's scream of pain and panic echoed in the silent wood, and it bolted. Satisfied, he saw to getting rid of his tracks.

As he trotted back to the cottage, Gundshau recognized where he was, and on a whim diverted his path deeper into the forest. An hour or two of steady running brought him to the camp where he'd left the band of orcs a week or more ago. Slowing to a walk, he warily approached. There was no sound, no challenge from a sentry. Sniffing the air, he frowned. The wind was at his back, carrying away any scent that might warn him of what was happening, or what _had_ happened. He didn't think he'd like what he found.

When Gundshau reached the edge of the clearing, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. They were there, all twelve of them he was sure. At least, there were twelve poles in the ground with an orc head at the top of each. In the center where they'd lit their campfire was a pile of smoldering bodies. Who knew how long they'd been there? Whether he would have found this after the troll's cave if he hadn't gotten lost in his agony? Or if this fate still awaited them, awaited _him_, if he had returned sooner?

He should be angry, he thought. He should seek vengeance. But for some reason, he couldn't muster the hate necessary. Couldn't even find the energy anymore. What good would it do, after all? What good had any of it done?

Turning his back, Gundshau walked slowly back to the cottage, his shoulders sagging in defeat.


	9. The Walls Come Tumbling Down

**The Walls Come Tumbling Down**

Nymhriel paced nervously in her cottage, wringing her hands. Each time a patient came for treatment or supplies, she jumped a mile and her heart nearly stopped in terror, thinking it was someone coming to ask about Willem's disappearance. Or the vile man's reappearance. Or someone coming to prey on her in her isolation.

She didn't want to admit to herself that she was afraid of being alone, unprotected, for the first time in her life. Such an admission was overshadowed by the realization that she owed her rescue from such humiliation to Gundshau, an orc, and one who owed her little.

She had treated him so basely in his helplessness, she thought with shame. If he knew how she had touched him when he could do nothing about it... How could she look him in the eyes and claim to be above acts of depravity or wickedness?

Sitting at her table, she traced her fingers along the whorls of the wooden surface, lost in thought. Nymhriel had been alone for four years now, the war long since over, the fallen men rotted in their graves. Too many women such as she were left behind to mourn in the lonely hours, days, weeks... years. She missed the company Angwedhon provided. The feelings of being loved and protected. The comforts of the marriage bed...

The sun had set by the time Nymhriel shook herself from her thoughts. The orc had been gone for hours; perhaps he found his folk and rejoined them. She should be grateful, if that were the case. Yet she was not. An empty feeling in the pit of her stomach refused to go away even after she sought to fill it with a light meal. Her pacing increased in agitation, and she frequently peeked out the window, hoping to see his loping form approaching.

Her thoughts kept returning to him, lying bound in her bed. Gundshau's body, so different from her late husband's, yet so intriguing in its sameness. Had there been an inch of his flesh she did not touch? Her hands fairly itched to do so again.

What was _wrong_ with her? Had she gone mad? Nymhriel shook her head vigorously, trying to drive Gundshau out of her mind. There had been times, as she dozed in the hard wooden chair in the kitchen while he slept fitfully in her bed, that her dreams had taken her to very disquieting places with the orc. Once, she'd allowed a dream to drift onward into waking, only to smother it soon after, flushing with shameful arousal.

She slowly went to her room and changed into a light sleeping shift. He wasn't coming back. She was alone again. Lying in the bed so long occupied by Gundshau, she breathed in his lingering scent. She'd kept him clean, had gotten quite used to him. Now the smell of him was as familiar as Angwedhon's had been at one time.

Lying awake, her thoughts drifted to Gundshau and her eyes closed. Turning her head on the pillow, she inhaled slowly. The orc was no longer there to tempt her with his presence. She could let down the walls protecting her mind from the betrayal of her body. She could think of him freely now, doing things to her only Angwedhon ever had the right to do. The images did not repel her as she thought they would, or should. It was confusing, but she let the fantasy continue, adding the movement of her own hands over her secret places, imagining they belonged to the orc.

She did not hear his return, so wrapped was she in delirious self-pleasure. The door to her room slowly opened, the dark form of Gundshau entering curiously. He beheld her, lying on the bed, whispering _his_ name as she rubbed vigorously between her legs with one hand, and roughly massaged a breast with the other. Aroused by this vision, he hastily stripped, and climbed into the bed atop her.

Nymhriel's eyes flared open, and she screamed.


	10. The End of the War

**The End of the War**

Gundshau scrambled away as if he'd been caught disobeying an order and wanted to avoid a thrashing. He cringed at the sound of Nymhriel's hysterical weeping, and cowered in the corner. It occurred to him that perhaps he'd been wrong.

"I thought you were gone for good!" she suddenly cried, and he looked up to see her wrapped thoroughly in the blanket.

Swallowing, he shook his head. "No. I came back."

"I can _see_ that," she snapped. "Why the devil _did_ you come back?"

"I got no place to go," he replied.

"What about... what about that camp you said you were aiming for when you came here?" she said. Her ire seemed to be dying down as the shock of his intrusion wore off.

"Found it," he said, and winced. "All dead."

"Don't you have... family? Friends? Anywhere you can go?"

"All dead," he repeated, hanging his head. "Nowhere to go."

"Well, you cannot stay here," she said firmly.

"But... you called for me," he said quietly. "I heard you."

She winced and looked away, her cheeks darkening. "You were not meant to hear that. Or see it."

"Don't understand. What were you doing?"

"I do not want to talk about it!" she snapped.

Silence reigned for several minutes before Gundshau finally said, "I don't want to go. I have lost... everyone. Everything. I have nothing. I would ask for nothing. Just... warm fire. Good food. I would hunt for you. Bring you meat to cook. Protect you. That is all. I would not... I would not touch you."

He was surprised to feel tears on his face, and roughly wiped them away.

"Please," he whispered.

"I... I cannot think clearly right now," she said stiffly. "You can stay _tonight_. In the main room. Not here." Swallowing and finally averting her eyes, she added, "And clothe yourself."

Frowning, Gundshau rose and gathered up his clothing. Nodding in uncertain thanks, he left her room and closed the door. As he pulled the breeches on, he wondered if she would send him away on the morrow. Nodding to himself, he decided he should assume that would be the case. He would need to be strong. His da would want him to be strong.

* * *

><p>Nymhriel stared at the closed door for several minutes, listening intently. The orc's shuffling in the main room quieted; he must have bedded down somewhere. She felt... empty. A sob struggled to the surface, but she held it down, covering her mouth with her hand.<p>

She saw again Gundshau looming over her, his face twitching with lust, his erect member terrifyingly close to plundering the treasure beneath him. It was a humiliation to have been seen performing such a sinful act, moreso to be interrupted by the one about whom she was thinking while she did it.

Yet, even with him back, the desire was still there. It was not a fleeting fancy, indulged in the safety of the subject's absence. How could she? Was she so lonely that even the likes of Gundshau were appealing?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she slowly laid down on the pillow and tried not to think about it, tried to find sleep. In the silence, she listened for the orc's snoring, but heard nothing. She wondered if he, too, was troubled.

Her brow furrowed, and she opened her eyes again, listening hard. There was a creaking sound that didn't sound at all natural. Suddenly alarmed, Nymhriel leaped out of the bed and hurried to the door.

Where he found the rope, she had no idea and didn't want to know. He'd tried to do it quietly, obviously hadn't wanted her to hear, perhaps didn't want her to stop him. Or maybe he didn't think she would. Smothering a scream, Nymhriel hurried across the room, shoving her table under his dangling legs.

"Gundshau!" she cried. He still twitched at the end of the noose, his neck muscles too strong to allow a quick death. He made no effort to save himself even now; his face was pale, eyes rolled back. Sobbing, she searched frantically for a knife, throwing utensils all over the floor in her desperation. Finally, her fingers closed over the blessed handle, and she climbed upon the table. She sawed madly; the rope slowly, excruciatingly slowly let him loose, and he finally slid in a boneless heap onto the table.

Kneeling beside him, she gathered the orc in her arms and held him close, tears rolling down her cheeks and wetting his face. Gundshau took a deep breath, letting it out in a rush. She looked down, and their eyes met.

"Don't you _dare_ do that again," she hissed.

"I got nothing, Nymhriel," he said hoarsely. "You send me away, I go to my death. Why wait?"

"You don't know that," she said. Her voice trembled as she fought down the tears, swallowed the fear, and embraced the relief. "_I_ don't even know that. You didn't give me a chance to..."

He struggled to sit up, pulling away from her. "Chance to what?" he snarled. "You are right. I cannot stay here. Too many people come to you. Someone will see me. Then you...," he faltered, and rubbed his eyes. "They will think bad things of you. Think you... bed an orc, if I am still here. They will kill _you_ for that."

"I will deal with whatever comes," she said, her voice gradually steadying. "There are laws. I will remind them of that." Taking a deep breath, she pressed her lips together, her nostrils flaring determinedly as she exhaled. "I believe I require... a protector. I weary of the villagers constantly prattling on about how I would be 'safer' among them. No doubt, they would have considered it a... a lovely match, if I consented to wed Willem. That should tell you what fools they are."

He slowly turned his head to look at her. Her fierce expression brooked no argument.

"I shall go to the village on the morrow, and make arrangements for another bed to be delivered," she continued. "You shall sleep...," she said, then cast about the main room. "There. I believe a bed would fit in that corner. It is close to the fireplace. You will be warm."

"But... if you do that, they will know...," he began, but her chin lifted in defiance.

"I do not care," she said through clenched teeth. "The war is _over_."


	11. Facing the Inevitable

**Facing the Inevitable**

Gundshau fidgeted in the yard as Nymhriel fussed about in the cottage, gathering various remedies and whatnot she intended to trade for his bed. He couldn't believe she was going through with it. Not only that, she was dragging him along to the village.

_Why wait until they run into you unexpectedly?_ she'd reasoned. The orc was fine with that, actually. The villagers not knowing about him meant he could hide, keep himself safe while still watching over her. But she was having none of it.

"Come along now," Nymhriel said as she strode purposefully toward him, fixing her heaviest coat about her shoulders. "There's quite a nip in the air, isn't there?"

"Smells like snow," he grunted in response, then shuffled along behind her. He didn't know how far away the village was, but since she didn't pack anything for camping, he had to assume they could make it there in a day.

"You will show me to them?" he asked again for, perhaps, the hundredth time. Nymhriel sighed.

"Of course," she replied impatiently. "The more you grouse about it, the more determined I am. Let it be. You were so... damned determined to kill yourself last night, I'm surprised you shrink from..." She stopped walking. "Forgive me." She turned and looked at him. "I have treated you so badly, and all you have done is... nothing. You have done nothing but see to my safety, and I will _not_ have you punished for it."

"You have been kind," Gundshau protested, shaking his head.

Nymhriel waved her hand dismissively and continued down the dirt road. She did not wish to address her transgressions at the moment. Confused, the orc trotted to keep up.

They were not an hour down the road when the first test of her resolve appeared in the distance. A tradesman hauling goods to sell in the next village sat slumped wearily on the buckboard of his wagon, hands barely twitching the reins. His horse was an old roan gelding, and had walked this road many times. He barely needed guidance anymore.

Yet when the animal caught a whiff of the orc on the wind, he suddenly came alive. The horse halted as if it had been struck, reared its head, and tried to back up in the traces. The tradesman nearly fell backwards off his seat, he was so surprised by his horse's behavior.

Gundshau drew close to Nymhriel nervously, trying to appear smaller as she approached the man.

"Good day to you, Barannon," the woman said cheerfully. "I have not seen you in some time. How fares your wife?"

The look of shock on the man's face when he saw Nymhriel's travel companion was comical, though the orc was not in a mood to appreciate the humor of it. A half a foot shorter than her even at his full height, he seemed smaller still when stooped as he was now. Yet he was certainly broader in the shoulders; he could not hide behind her.

"You... there is... ah," the man stammered, slowly raising a hand to point at Gundshau. "There is an _orc_ behind you."

"Yes, this is Gundshau," she replied casually, stepping aside so the man could see him fully. Gundshau wished he could melt into the dirt beneath his feet. "He came to my cottage in need of healing. Had you not heard of this, the last time you came through?"

"Aye," Barannon said, gradually calming. He took a shuddering breath, then slowly alighted from the wagon. He came closer, looking at the orc warily. "I heard in the village he had... escaped."

"Not at all," Nymhriel said. "He healed satisfactorily, so I released him. His... folk had moved on, so he returned."

"For what purpose?" he asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. He hadn't stopped staring at Gundshau, and the provocative eye contact was making the orc nervous. Among his own kind, such behavior often preceded a fight.

"He was... grateful for my aid, and offered his services in return," Nymhriel replied. Her brow creased with concern as she perceived the rising tension in the orc. "I found his offer of protection agreeable, and so I have allowed him to stay on."

Barannon's gaze finally shifted away from Gundshau to the woman. The orc sighed quietly with relief. "Protection? Oh yes, you _do_ live on the edge of the wilds, as I recall. I wonder that you do not move to the village."

"It is precisely because I do not wish to do so, that I have accepted his aid," she said, bristling noticeably. "I am more comfortable on my own, and more accessible to the farmsteads, where I am."

"Pardon me for saying, miss, but... he's an _orc_," Barannon pointed out as if she were unaware of this fact. "I'd not think _any_ would look to them for... protection."

"Perhaps not, but he has nowhere else to go," she pointed out. "I would rather he were occupied in a worthy office, than ranging about the roads waylaying travelers, don't you?"

"Well, when you put it that way...," Barannon conceded. "You there... Gundshau, is it?"

The orc started at being directly addressed, and glanced up at the man's face.

"What business have you got with this woman, eh?"

"No business," Gundshau muttered. "Just... protect."

"Barannon," Nymhriel said sternly. "He has done nothing wrong."

"Hmph," the man snorted. "I got a few dead kinfolk who beg to differ. You watch yourself, beast. Not one man in that village yonder ain't seen one of you murdering animals at your work. They won't forget it anytime soon, either."

Gundshau felt it building inside him when the man began. He had never been a slow burn when it came to dealing with _tarks_, and he wasn't one now. His body quivered, and his fists clenched. Only Nymhriel's gently restraining hand on his arm calmed him, if only just.

"Your words are unnecessary, Barannon," she said. "_And_ unwelcome. Do you not have business to attend to in the next village?"

"That I do," he relented, but fixed the orc with one last piercing glare before climbing back into the wagon. "You lot _lost_ the war. Just you remember that." With a flick of the reins, he continued on his way.

Dropping into a squat, Gundshau wrapped his arms around his head and squeezed as he howled his frustration. Nymhriel wasn't sure how to react, and just stood awkwardly by. Part of her wanted to lift him up, dust him off, speak words of comfort to him, while another part wished she'd left him at home, but whether to spare herself or the orc the discomfort of that painful conversation, she wasn't sure.

"Come," she said quietly, touching his shoulder lightly. "We should be getting on while we still have daylight."

"I don't murder," he muttered, slowly looking up at her. His red eyes were wet. "_They_ murder. _My_ kin. _My_ ma, _my_ da. Sisters, all gone now."

"War makes men do..."

"_Not_ war!" he roared, standing up suddenly to his full height. He glared up at her, his expression pained and fierce. "Peace! Do nothing but live in our homes, cook our meals, hunt our food, and they come." His body shook, and he rubbed his face roughly. "You do not know. They do not tell you these things. They do not _care._ We are _orcs_. Beasts. Animals. When they do not make war on us, they hunt us." His face crumpled, and Gundshau sank to the ground again. "Not just warriors. Sisters. Just so big." He held his hands out before him, cupped as if he held something small. "Saw her smile once. Little face."

Nymhriel knelt beside him. "What became of her?" she asked softly, dreading the answer.

Staring at his still-cupped hands, Gundshau said in a dead voice, "_Tarks_... killed her. Horses... trampled. So small. She did nothing. Not to anyone."

Staring at him in horror, Nymhriel felt tears stinging her eyes.

"He says they will not forget," Gundshau snarled. "I will not forget, either."

* * *

><p>When they reached the village somewhat past midday, Gundshau once more caused a stir. Livestock, in particular, dove for cover upon detecting his scent. Many knew of Nymhriel's orc, for he had languished in bondage for weeks, but then he had been 'safely' several miles away. Now he was shuffling along in her wake within the confines of the village, uncomfortably close and disturbingly real. Men reached for anything resembling a weapon, be it sword or rake, while women gathered their children and shooed them off the streets and into hiding. Gundshau kept his head down, eyes averted. A trio of men approached Nymhriel, weapons drawn.<p>

"Good afternoon," Nymhriel greeted them warily.

"What's this filth doing here?" the apparent leader of the men snapped. She recognized him as Saervodh, a man not known for his charity.

"He is my protector," she replied, a note of defiance in her voice. Having Gundshau with her made her feel much more bold and brave, though she had no desire to see him at odds with these men. "Many have urged me to move here for my safety, and I have refused. It simply occurred to me that, if I were not alone, perhaps I would be bothered less by such talk."

Saervodh snorted. "You'll not hear the end of it by hiring such a beast as this." His baleful eyes scanned the orc from head to toe. "Fixed you up, did she? All mended, I see."

Unsure what to do, the orc just nodded without looking up.

"So where's the thing sleeping?" Saervodh asked, looking at Nymhriel now. "I don't recall a stable at your place."

"That is why I am here," she replied. "He requires a bed." Turning to one of the other men, she asked, "I do hope you have at least one available. I have measured the space as best I could..."

"Are you saying the orc is staying _inside your house_?"

Startled, she said, "Of course. Where _else_ would he sleep?"

Saervodh glared at her, then flicked his eyes toward the orc. Gundshau refused to meet his gaze, and kept his head bowed. It was worse here, in the village, than on the empty road with but one _tark _glaring at him with hostility. He could feel the eyes upon him from every window, every door. The air was heavy with the reek of fear. Some of it was coming from him.

The man looked at Nymhriel with a blank expression. "What says Willem of this arrangement?"

She had tried to prepare herself for such questions as this, but it was still difficult to hear the man's name and not shudder. "To begin with, it matters little to me what his opinion on the matter may be," she snapped, covering her discomfort with haughtiness. "I've no idea what he thinks; I have not seen him in days."

"Aye, nor have we," Saervodh acknowledged, glancing at the other men who nodded their agreement. Then he glared suspiciously at the orc. "How long has he been free?"

"A day only," she answered firmly.

"Yesterday?"

"Yes," she replied. She felt her jaw tightening.

"Slept the night in your house, then?" Saervodh pressed.

Nymhriel wasn't certain where the man was going with his line of questioning, but it made her nervous. "That he did."

"You're certain of that?"

"I am a light sleeper," she said tightly. "I waken easily. If you have a point, Saervodh, please make it."

"Willem's horse came back all scratched up this morning," the man replied. "Looked like... claws hit it." His eyes flicked down Gundshau's arm to the talons at the ends of his fingers. It was fortunate the orc wasn't looking at him, or he might have instinctively hidden his hands, and so revealed his guilt.

"Surely there are many... creatures that might have attacked the poor animal," Nymhriel said. "What... what does Willem say happened?"

Saervodh narrowed his eyes at her. "He's not here. The horse came back alone. There are men out looking right now."

"Oh," she breathed. Her hand rose to her throat. "You do not think..."

"We'll know when we find'im," Saervodh snapped, again fixing the orc with a piercing look. "Better not look like _you_ had anything to do with it, beast."

Gundshau slowly raised his red eyes to the man's, his expression stony. "I do not murder," he growled, teeth bared.

The man smirked. "I wonder if you even know what 'murder' is." He then turned around and marched off, his companions following in his wake.

"Do _you_?" the orc muttered contemptuously.


	12. Clearing All Obstacles

**Clearing All Obstacles**

"Hold your tongue," Nymhriel warned in an undertone as she and Gundshau entered the carpenter's storefront. He frowned, but kept any further comments to himself. Though the man who provoked him hadn't come to this place, one of his fellows _had_, and the orc was expecting a continuation of the prior conversation.

"Glathael," Nymhriel greeted the man at the workbench. Glancing up from his ledger, he nodded.

"Been looking over the inventory," he said. "I got a bed you can have. Ain't much, but I reckon it'll do for the likes of him." He darted a sour look toward the orc, then turned back to Nymhriel, effectively dismissing Gundshau from existence.

"Thank you so much," she replied gratefully. "How soon can it be delivered?"

Gundshau's attention wandered as she finalized the arrangements. There were so many smells in this small space, so much cut wood releasing odors into the air, his senses were momentarily confused. Birch, ash, oak, pine... Stacks of planks at one wall, waiting to be cut and joined into tables, chairs, wardrobes, beds... Several finished products and things still unfinished...

It was a good smell. Not of the trees' deaths, but of the creation of useful things. He found himself smiling a little as he gazed about him. He was startled out of his reverie by Nymhriel's hand on his arm.

"It is time to go," she said gently. He nodded and followed her out.

In the little time they were in the carpenter's, the snow-laden clouds began to release their burden. Flakes fluttered down gracefully; already the ground had a light dusting.

"We must make haste," Nymhriel said. They quickened their pace out of the village.

Gundshau half expected them to be met on their way out, confronted and harrassed by that Saervodh once again. The orc was no fool; no matter when Willem was found, or what condition the corpse was in by then, _he_ would be blamed, and no amount of talk would convince anyone otherwise.

They were met by some on the outskirts of the village, but not those expected. The orc's nostrils suddenly flared as a familiar scent came to him.

Walking along the road toward them were Berenold and his wife, Hannah. The woman carried a bundle in her arms.

"Hannah!" Nymhriel cried, rushing to the woman and embracing her carefully. "And little Beldoron! He is doing well, I see."

As the healer gushed, Hannah smiled and showed off her son. Berenold, however, glared at the orc.

"Still around, eh?" he said stiffly. Gundshau nodded quickly, but said nothing, nor did he meet the former soldier's eyes. He wanted to laugh; he remembered seeing this man collapse at the sight of his son being born. But he held his mirth inside.

Turning his attention to the infant, Gundshau inclined his head to see past Nymhriel's shoulder to the curly, dark haired head. The warmth of memory flooded him suddenly, and his lips drew back in a smile.

"Little face," he murmured.

"Here, you," the man snapped, pushing the orc back roughly. "Keep away from my wife!"

"Berenold, please!" Nymhriel cried. She saw the orc's eyes flare wide, his face contort with anger, and put herself between them. "He means no harm!"

"I do not go near wife," Gundshau snarled. "Look at child only."

"I'll not have your filth looking at my wife _or_ my son!"

"Easy," Nymhriel whispered in the orc's ear. "I swear to you, he means no harm. He had... a sister. Perhaps this young. I'm _sure_ he but remembers..."

"You may have forgotten what they are capable of, what they are known to do, but I have not," Berenold growled. "You _know_ what is done to our women. Did you forget they feast on our flesh as well? I will not have him looking at them with such... interest."

"I do not!" Gundshau snapped indignantly. "As Nymhriel said. Sister. So small. Like this. Remember her, long ago..." His voice faltered, and he gazed sadly at the little boy. "All over the ground..."

"I apologize, to both of you," Nymhriel said hastily. "We really must be getting on before the snow gets worse. And you should hurry home as well."

Hannah kept staring at the orc, and wouldn't budge right away when Berenold tried to urge her onward.

"You watched him being born, did you not?" she asked softly. Gundshau nodded. She smiled hesitantly, then took a few steps toward him. She ignored her husband's gasp. Hannah peeled back the blanket so the orc could see her son's sleeping face.

For a moment, Gundshau felt almost alone with the woman and her child. Complete silence reigned. He reached up slowly and brushed a curl off the child's forehead. "Little face," he said again, and smiled.

* * *

><p>The walk back to the cottage was uneventful, though it took the rest of the day and past nightfall. By then, the temperature had dropped significantly, and the wind had picked up, blowing great snowy gusts into their faces. When the cottage finally appeared, there had never been a more welcome sight to either of them.<p>

Gundshau immediately set to work building a fire in the kitchen hearth while Nymhriel rummaged about the pantry. It was getting late and she was too weary to make a large meal; something simple would have to do.

In their absence, the cottage had become as cold as a tomb. Even though the orc put up a large, hot fire, it would take awhile to heat the place sufficiently. Her hands shook as she cut vegetables for a quick stew.

"Fetch some of that boar, Gundshau," she said. Nodding, he went out into the snow to the smokehouse.

Before long, they were seated at the table with steaming bowls of stew. Gundshau savored every spoonful, and not just because he was finally able to feed himself. The room was getting warmer as the heat from the hearth billowed out.

"Such a shame," Nymhriel mused absently, staring into the fire. "I never got around to having a hearth added to the bedroom. It would certainly make tonight easier to bear."

"Why not?" the orc asked, sighing contentedly over his full belly.

"You will think me silly," she said, blushing and looking away.

"Not silly," he grinned. "Tell me."

"It was not necessary when Angwedhon and I built this house," she said. "To begin with, it was in the summer. Also, we believed... we would always be together."

"Who is... Angwedhon?" he asked, struggling with the unfamiliar name.

"He _was_ my husband," she said, sadness in her voice. "He went away to war and... never came back."

"Husband," the orc said. It was slightly familiar, that word, and one he'd rather dwell on than the implication that the man had died fighting Gundshau's own people. "Why did that matter, not building hearth?"

Sighing, she said, "We believed we would always keep one another warm."

"Oh," he replied. He would gladly keep her warm tonight and every night, if she consented. But he had no idea how to approach her with such an offer. He barely knew how his own kind went about these things, let alone _tarks_. Curious, he asked, "How did he win you?"

Startled, Nymhriel blinked at him. "Well... he... I believe he went to my father and asked permission to court me."

"Court?"

"Yes. He accompanied me on errands, mostly. Any opportunity to just be with me. We talked a lot." Shrugging, she looked at him helplessly. "I am certain others' courtships are more interesting than ours. It was appropriate for us, at the time. How do... orcs... court their women?"

"Not much talk," Gundshau replied carefully. "If a male is interested in a female, he... presents her with a fresh kill." He dared not look at her.

"He does?" she whispered. Swallowing hard, she glanced down at the bowl nearby, the dregs of pork broth pooling in the bottom. "What is... the purpose of this?"

"He shows he can look after her," he said. "Strong. Clever. Bring food to eat."

"I see. Then what does he do?"

"Whatever she wishes. Whatever will... please her."

"What... sorts of things would please... an orc female?"

"Services," he said quietly. "Could be repairing her shelter. Fetching plants. Sharpening blades. Or it could be... pleasing her body."

"Oh," Nymhriel breathed unsteadily. "So... he might be... invited to her bed."

"Yes."

"And what... is the purpose? What does he... show her by doing this?"

"That he is unselfish. That he gives as well as takes."

"Can he... give?" she whispered.

Gundshau nodded. "He can give much."

"And she... gives as well?"

"Yes."

She closed her eyes for a moment. All it would take was one word now, it seemed, and her darkest fantasies could become reality. Her body ached for such dreams to be realized. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes.

"Come to my bed, Gundshau. Please...," she murmured, swallowing awkwardly, "please me."

He blinked for a moment, then slowly nodded. Together they stood, and went to the bedroom. The room was cold, as it had been for years since her husband left. The orc's heat seemed to drive away the chill.

Her fingers shook as she untied the lacings on her dress. She didn't watch as Gundshau shed the clothes she'd given him, nor did she turn when he slid under the blanket to wait for her. She could feel his eyes upon her as her dress slipped to the floor. Taking a steadying breath, she climbed into the bed beside him.

In the darkness, she could barely make out his features, except for the red glitter of his eyes in the spare, flickering light cast by the hearthfire in the main room. But she knew she would not mistake him for her husband, or any other man, this night.

"Tell me how I should please you," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. She felt his hot breath on her skin and shivered pleasantly.

"Touch me," she whispered, raising her arms above her head and arching her back. His rough, calloused hand started at her hip and moved slowly up her side, over her ribs, then cupped her breast.

Gundshau had never been soft with a female before; orcesses generally favored a rougher sort of coupling. What he knew of Nymhriel, though, convinced him there was no other way he could be with her. He kneaded her breast gently, thrilling to her clear acceptance. Instincts would have him mounting her quickly, but this was not for idle pleasure. He was courting her. This was mating. Mating was _always_ shared equally. Gundshau's youth hadn't granted him the right to receive 'the talk' from his da before he died, but he'd been told _this_ much over the intervening years.

Leaning down, he took the taut nipple into his mouth and suckled her breast tenderly, mindful of his sharp, jagged teeth. His attentions were obviously welcomed, for Nymhriel trembled in his arms and moaned faintly, even as she pushed her breast against his mouth.

"Lower," she breathed, and he felt her legs parting, inviting him to explore there. He smiled; the scent of her desire was so strong, he could not resist it much longer in any case. His mouth began its slow descent.

When he reached the juncture between her legs, his darting tongue sent waves of pleasure rocketing through her body. Angwedhon had never consented to please her in this manner, thinking her too 'pure' for such base treatment. But she had longed for the experience ever since a woman confided to her what her lover had done, thinking it unsavory and feeling guilt for enjoying it.

At this moment, Nymhriel didn't give a damn what the opinions might be on pleasuring a woman with a man's mouth. Grabbing his head, she held the orc in place, and rolled her hips wantonly.

He did not finish her this way, however. Rising up, he knelt over her and eased in slowly, savoring every moment, every inch of her passage he was allowed to penetrate. A low, feral growl crept out of his throat.

Nymhriel's hands caressed his ears, stroked his chest, clutched his backside, as he thrust his hips, burying himself inside her. He leaned down close, supported on his elbows, and touched his forehead to hers.

When she entreated him breathlessly to quicken his pace, he obeyed readily. He felt nearly like a wildfire out of control, so near to reaching an end was he. And he could sense she was close as well, the way her body moved beneath him, and how she mewed and gasped in his ear. All at once, he convulsed, and spilled his seed in a hot torrent within her. She seemed only to have waited for this proof of his satisfaction, for her own climax came upon her soon after.

It was like nothing he'd ever experienced, even with an orcess. Nymhriel writhed and bucked, cried out, dug her nails into his hide... and that was just what was going on _outside_. Within her body, he felt as if she'd gotten a tight grip on his member and was milking him of every last drop, to ensure he did not cheat her of the smallest portion of his seed. The sensation was so profoundly arousing, he nearly provided another offering to her seemingly unquenchable thirst.

He felt wanted. Needed.

"Nymhriel," he whispered. "Be my mate."

"I... Yes. If you will be mine, I will be yours."

"I have been yours for many days," he chuckled.

She stiffened slightly, then relaxed. "Then I must catch up, mustn't I?"

* * *

><p>The sun was peeking over the horizon when the men came, led by Saervodh. They bore torches, for the storm's fury cast the snow so thick in the air that only fire allowed them to see one another. Lip curled in a fury, Saervodh quietly opened the front door of the cottage and led them inside.<p> 


	13. The Orc's Mate

**The Orc's Mate**

The flames consuming Nymhriel's house licked high, the smoke obscuring the feebly rising sun. Outside, a group of men stood stone-faced, arms crossed, pitiless and unsatisfied. Saervodh railed back and forth, cursing like a madman. The storm of the previous night still raged, reducing the figures to dark smudges from a distance.

"Like I thought," Gundshau said quietly. He glanced at Nymhriel's tear-streaked face. "They found him. No words would hide me."

"No, none," she said shakily, hugging herself.

"Do you... regret?"

She shook her head. "I regret nothing."

Gathering their packs, the pair slipped into the deeper growth of the forest behind the healer's cottage. She could barely hear the roaring fire destroying all that she had, all that she was, as they ascended the hills skirting the mountains. If she regretted anything, it was taking Gundshau to the village, showing them her ease with the orc, confessing to his presence in her home. Daring to imply trust in a creature deemed so untrustworthy.

"Gundshau," she said quietly, and halted. He paused as well, and looked at her. "I have been... I... did things... I am not proud of."

He bowed his head. Taking a shuddering breath, he opened his mouth to apologize for touching her, for coaxing her to such a commitment, but she stilled him with a hand on his arm.

"You did nothing," she insisted. "When you were... bound, I... I took... liberties. It was wrong. I should not have... touched you so."

Furrowing his brow and tilting his head curiously, he said, "You touched me?"

"Regrettably, yes," she said in a small, shamed voice.

"How?"

"In a most... intimate manner," she replied in a whisper.

"Did touching... make you want me?" he asked, a ghost of a smile threatening his mouth.

"It made me crave you," she breathed, looking into his warm red eyes.

"Then it is welcomed," he grinned. "If it softened your heart and blinded your eyes."

"Opened them, more like," she sighed, relieved. "I shall take no such advantage of you again."

Arching his brow, he slipped an arm about her waist and urged her to continue their trek. "That would _not_ be welcome," he chuckled.

Their tracks filled quickly. Lacking a tracking hound or an orc's sensitive nose, Saervodh and his men stood no chance of picking up their trail. Though Nymhriel did not relish a life in hiding, there were worse things to endure. Loneliness had been a terrible burden to bear. Death would have been a small inconvenience by comparison.

But watching them slay Gundshau before her eyes... That was something she could not have borne. Sighing, she leaned against him. Had he not followed his instincts, felt the coming threat, they might have perished in the flames. Together, perhaps, but she did not particularly want to be at his side in _that_ way, not when there were so many other ways laid out before them.

* * *

><p>AN: The story continues in _Oaths_ by Helenamarkos, here on FFN!


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